ThingsPondered

The first item in this list is primo.  After that, I consider the events equally thrilling, so their order does not imply ranking.

1.        Singing a duet with my son Benjamin for a nursing home gig at Christmastime.   He was in junior high, but was already a baritone.  (Ben wryly attributed this precocious vocal development to all the steroids he has endured for asthma.)  It was joyful to me how well our voices blended, and….duh…I guess they should have coming from the same genetic heritage.

2.       Singing a duet of Amen (from 1963 film Lilies of the Field) with Clark Lash at meeting.

3.       Singing The Verdi Requiem (alto chorus member) with orchestra, guest soloists.  The Dies Irae with timpani —- omg!  Icing on the cake was the small, private party afterwards with some good people from Reading Choral Society and bass soloist Brian Gibson.

4.       Teaching the Sunday school song “The Lord Said to Noah” with full motions, standing up, sitting down and so forth to kindergartners at St. Mary’s R.C. School.  I remember  many times singing “Rise and shine and give God the glory, glory” with my arms outstretched to the sky and thinking “I am getting PAID to do this!  Wow!”

5.       Playing one of my choral compositions (AATTBB) on the piano for a Harvard music major and his gasping with delight at one part.

6.       Singing the Queen of the Night “Der Hölle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen” aria (from Mozart’s The Magic Flute) in a voice lesson.  I always wanted to do it.

7.       Playing djembe with good, experienced fellow drummers.

8.       Singing in District and Regional choruses in high school.

9.       Teaching and directing the St. Mary parish children’s choir in my composition of the Our Father.  Also, hearing them singing it on the playground for fun because it is lively.                                  (Like God. Duh)

1                – Room for whatever the next biggie will be -

Tonight I met an angel.  Correction: I already knew him, but tonight he revealed to me the angel he is.   I accidentally learned that he is much more than one of us grunts showing up at work to get the paycheck.  

I do ancillary work in a public elementary school.  I’m there in the wee hours of the morning and again in the evening.  With these hours, I’ve gotten to know many of the behind-the-scenes staff.  Don is the head custodian.  Maybe in other parts they call such folks janitors or maintenance people.  Anyway, he’s one of the guys who gets all the fun toys to work with: that big wringer bucket on wheels, floor buffers, moving dolleys, and the keys to every single room.

While I was cleaning up my area, Don was taking a quick break, chatting with other custodians within earshot of my room.  They were talking about work schedules and he brought up that he had off on Friday but that he might come in for a few minutes.  Why?  Why in the world? It seems that there is a boy in first grade who has developed quite a bond with him. Don and the child’s teacher have worked out an arrangement in which Jake gets to shadow Don for five or ten minutes every day.  On one particular day when Don was at work but coming down with one of the nasty germs that go around every winter, the teacher suggested that Jake pass on the helping because Mr. Don was not feeling well.  As Don put it, Jake’s whole self just sort of deflated.

It seems that Jake doesn’t have a father.  At all.  Nada.  Never – as far as the mother is concerned.  So, little Jake doesn’t have dad’s name, doesn’t have a pre-divorce memory, or even an entire paternal side of the family.  While Don isn’t trying to overstep his role, he sees how important it is for this little tyke to have a positive, caring adult male in his life.  And THAT is why he is going to pop in for ten minutes on his day off.  Not for overtime pay, not for glory and honor.  Just for little Jake.  He’s an angel.

If you can immediately answer that question (as can I), then I know how old you are.  Or, at least I know your minimum age.  In fact, it was a great age-estimator question for me when I was dating “the second time around.”

Now for the rest of you, the particular Kennedy (because there certainly are a gaggle of them) is JFK, John Fitzgerald Kennedy.  He was the 35^th President of the United States, serving from 1961 to 1963.  Although I was a mere child with absolutely NO interest in the world beyond my immediate neighborhood, I was touched by his vitality and youth via osmosis from the mind-set  of the adult world.  Not only Americans, but much of the “free world” was enamored of him.   To say he was charismatic grossly under-describes his appeal.

Therefore, when he was gunned down in Dallas right before Thanksgiving, anyone who was age five or older had the tragedy’s events imprinted on his consciousness forever.  Everyone aware of it knows exactly where he or she was when she heard, exactly what part of the day she heard, and exactly how she learned it. 

For younger Americans, the day of the disintegration of the space shuttle Challenger in January 1986 may be equivalent.  For all who were aware, the attack of 9/11 2001 is the same.

Let’s explore the common features.  Both give the viewer unvarnished pictures of Indian poverty.  Furthermore, both focus on children for the majority of the story.   In addition, the films were made in the last 5 years by Brits in India, although Slumdog is more of a cooperative effort between Brits and Indians.

Slumdog was completed in 2008 and is in theatres now (January 2009.)  Its story occurs in the city of Mumbai (Bombay.)    Although it is not officially a Bollywood film, it contains many of the Bollywood elements such as melodrama, star-crossed lovers, and much good music.  In contrast,  Born is a 2004 documentary, transpiring in Kolkata (Calcutta.)  It won an Oscar in 2005 for best documentary, whereas Slumdog has yet to be judged.  Slumdog is listed as R-rated comedy-drama, which is a good way to describe it, though I think that it comes close to fantasy, as well.  Many things are left unexplained or poorly developed, asking the viewer to willingly abandon expectations of credulity.  On the other hand, as Born is a documentary – it is totally true in revealing its happy or less-than-happy endings for various characters.   Many newspaper reviews call Slumdog a feel-good movie, but I beg to differ.  The many instances of graphic violence in Slumdog surprised me and did not make me feel good.  Furthermore, I think that Born is much more uplifting because it is more than “possible;” its happy resolutions are real.

One thing I am glad both pix do is contribute to American knowledge and respect and probably appreciation of things Indian.  Sometimes, persons in the U.S. focus on perceived negatives of the brother and sister humans who do not speak English or worship in Judeo-Christian establishments.  Both of these movies draw the viewer empathetically into the very difficult and courageous lives of the characters.  The films succeed in changing Indian people from “them” into “us.”

(Some names have been changed.)

Most Roman Catholic grammar schools are connected with a church.  St. Munificentia R.C. School followed form.  The precious jewel of a church was a high-spired landmark in the Polish ghetto of a medium-sized Pennsylvania industrial town.  Even as recently as fifteen years ago, the tight-knit neighborhood had arrivals of newcomers from Poland and the eastern European countries.  The parish of St. Munificentia qualified, in the eyes of the diocese, as an ethnic parish.  This means that Polish-American Catholics living outside the geographic bounds of the neighborhood were permitted to belong.

The school of St. Munificentia served the parish plus that of St. Patchoulicus, whose parochial school had closed.  Therefore, the students were blessed with the care of priests from both churches.

St. Patchoulicus is an easy ten-block walk from St. M.  However, there truly was a world of difference.  Better said, it was a different part of the world which settled in that parish’s environs.  Our superb immigrants from Vietnam somehow selected this neighborhood in Pennsylvania’s land of opportunities.  We are very fortunate that they did, because their work ethic and desire to become contributors to the community were inspirational.

Students at St. Munificentia went to Mass every single Friday.  Spelling tests and Mass were a good way to end a week.  Because of the school affiliation with two parishes, the priest celebrating the pupils’ Mass could be from either church.  I particularly remember two. 

Father Ubiquitous could have won at James Cagney impersonations.  His heart and soul were in exactly the right place: he gave up a room in his rectory quarters to a child in his parish struck paralyzed and mute by a tragic accident.  If that is not living the faith, I don’t know what is.  However, Father U. is notable in my mind for another practice.  When he led the children’s Mass at St. Munificentia, he absolutely, always, always cut short his sermon – homily with the excuse that he was sure we all had things we needed to be doing and he did also.

Gruff Father Lione, on the other hand, gave great care to his homily for the Masses at which he knew the children would attend.  His homilies were a perfect amalgam of a message for children and a few “hidden” bits of humor for adults.  Nothing off-color (Heavens no!), just grown-up experiences.  They were similar to a good Muppets sketch, and since I was not Catholic, I felt free to laugh out loud.  However, his children’s parts were not cutesy; they were rather stern and required paying attention because he often asked a few questions.  Then, the brave among the children (this includes all first graders, universally) would raise a hand.  If he pointed to the child, that student would quakingly stand up and give an answer in the echoing cavernous gorgeous church.   Fortunately, Father Lione appreciated the bravery, so would not skewer or embarrass any child giving an incorrect answer.

These Masses were a golden moment.                                                                                              

There are many religious mysteries in our world.  Some are phenomena; others are concepts.  Many people are very comfortable co-existing with unexplained ideas.  Others create a reason for accepting them.  Still others must reject anything that cannot be justified to their satisfaction.

Mystic beliefs exist in many sects.  For example, in Christianity, many followers are taught that the Highest Power is one God, but also THREE god-spirits at the same time.  This is the concept of the trinity: that God is one and also a threesome, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. 

 I have no trouble accepting the Trinity as an un-understandable reality.  I can live with this mystery.

However, there is an idea on the God-front and mother-front that has provoked strong reactions in me.  A Christian counselor once told me that God loved my two sons more than I ever could.  Impossible.  No way.  My love for them is limitless.  It is pure and strong and constant.  Such was my initial reaction. 

Many years have elapsed since that counselor’s assertion.  Inevitably, time and reflection have made their marks on my thoughts, feelings, and perception of the inexplicable God.  Now I accept the notion that God’s love for my boys is bigger than my love.  However, this notion belongs in the realm of un-understandable mysteries to me.  It cannot diminish my knowledge of the strength of amount of love I have for them.  What it tells me is that there is a God-love that I cannot begin to comprehend. 

This possibility of a huge God-love which is larger than my infinite mother-love is so mysterious and incomprehensible that I tire trying to imagine it.  Happily, I need not understand it to accept it.  As long as it is the “force of goodness,” I am assured that all is well in my world.  Love you, sons!

(Some names have been changed.)

One of my fondest memories of my work life revolves around experiences teaching at St. Munificentia Roman Catholic School.  It was wealthy.  That is if you count gifts of the spirit, God’s love everpresent, and glorious hardwood floors, lovingly maintained wooden desks, doors with transom windows, and glowing radiators as richness.  I do.

The school operated on the third floor of a sturdy red-brick parish social hall, in which the community of  parishioners  came to see movies in the early twentieth century, sitting in folding chairs in the cavernous first floor.  “Third floor walk-up” had an entirely new meaning for a St. Munificentia teacher.  Since children in elementary (or grammar) school grades need to be escorted everywhere by the teacher, we did a lot of up- and down-ing on those stairs.  We called it the true fitness plan of the school.

This school was tiny in population and in square feet.  Classes were multi-grade decades before it became fashionable.  This was not due to any St. M. undisclosed research on educational benefits of combining ages.  No, it was because there were only five classrooms serving nine grades.  In this setting, the space for the administrative office was proportionately small.  Actually, it was smaller than proportional.  Most homes have powder rooms larger than our office.

The office contained a desk for the secretary and a desk for the principal, Mrs. Mary Kathleen O’Grady.  One could walk in a mere three feet before colliding with the secretary’s desk.  This was no business office-sized desk.  It was wooden (of course) and about 33 inches wide.  It reminded me of the desks that furniture stores sell for a child’s room.  In front of it, a chair sat sideways for visitors to conduct their business.  Behind it sat Téresita, the secretary.     

Ah, Téresita!  She was an angel with the mischievous gleam of the devil in her eye.  Attractive and slender, dark-haired and perpetually smiling, she always seemed to have time for a few friendly words, regardless of her workload.  Because of her inviting presence, she attracted visitors and confidences.  Especially from men. 

Thus, it is no surprise that on the appointed day for school pictures at St. M., the photographer, after checking in at the office, lingered.  He was the familiar traveling school photographer we had used for several years running: an ambitious, trendy, single guy trying to make his way in the world and trying make his life sound bigger and better than what it was.   

This was 1999.  A certain medicine for older men had just become available to the American public and there was quite an advertising campaign pushing it into everyone’s awareness.  Apparently, younger men were also intrigued by it.

Our photographer came to the office in the early afternoon.  He was formally dressed, with tie and snazzy jacket.  Evidently, he’d had an extraordinary experience with his morning Catholic school client and needed to spill it all to someone.  Who better than our Téresita?  As Principal O’Grady was not present, he felt free to confide.

It seems that this new medicine had so captivated his curiosity, that he was able to procure one pill.  Not that he had any problems, mind you.  However, he just wanted to know what it might accomplish in a healthy young man.  He paused. This was too much temptation for our Téresita to resist.  With a combination of sympathy and extreme interest, she egged him on to reveal the whole story.  With total privacy prevailing, there was time for him to pour it out. And, of course, the reason the rest of us know it is because Téresita wickedly shared it all later.

The young fellow took the pill the evening prior to this work day.  It worked very well.  However, it continued to work for a very long time.  So, as he prepared to go to his first client school, he needed an outfit that would provide “coverage.”  Arriving with his photographic equipment, he was greeted by that school’s principal.  She was a very elderly, veteran nun.

From what Téresita reported, I imagine this principal as round-faced and kindly, with eyeglasses and the VERY old-fashioned penguin habit:  a floor-length black robe with a rosary swinging from her rope belt as she walked.  I picture her with sensible thick-heeled quiet shoes.  Gnarled competent hands.  Someone who had lived with her sisters in Christ for the last 45 years and had watched with pride many a graduating class of 8^th graders.   Now she was greeting the photographer who would take the autumn school portraits.

Early autumn in the northeast is unpredictable.  Some days are brisk; others are summer-like.  To this man’s misfortune, it was already humid and hot that morning.  As the nun welcomed him and guided him to the room he would use, he took care that his jacket was well-placed, prim, and proper looking.     Classes were called.  Individual and class portraits were begun.  Very quickly, though, the photographer was roasting.  Of course, the sister noticed his face and hands covered with beads of sweat and encouraged him to take off his jacket to get comfortable.  Any reasonable person would have immediately complied.

However, conditions were not yet favorable.  He had to thank her and decline, saying he was good, while it was quite obvious that he wasn’t.  As the picture taking continued, all those little student bodies in a small space added to the temperature and moisture levels.  Several more times, the principal urged him to remove his jacket and loosen his tie so as to be comfortable.  Each time, he needed to create some sort of excuse and smile.  He had a rough morning!  Finally, he was done and, at the same time, coincidentally, so was the medication.

So, with this amazing story unburdened and the freedom to work in shirt-sleeves restored, our photographer went about his business at St. Munificentia.  Later, after the students left, Téresita relished telling us the entire episode.  The story itself was hilariously funny, but the idea that he told someone else was irresistibly riotous.  Poor man.  Little did he know that for every year thereafter, as he came to conduct photography business, we were enjoying this adventure of his which was absolutely NONE of our business!

Sandy Sanctuary

In Charlotte Amalie on St. Thomas, almost at the the crest of the hill sits a beautiful jewel of a worship center.  It is hundreds of years old, full of carefully tended mahogany, and always endowed with a carpet of taupe-colored sand.

Historic synagogue in continuous use

The congregation Beracha Veshalom Vegmiluth Hasidim is better known as “the historic St. Thomas synagogue .” It is the only synagogue on the island. Founded in 1796, it provided a safe haven for worship for the Jewish families settling there. Although the current building was constructed in 1833, there never was a time since 1796 that the congregation dissipated or moved, no matter the government-du-jour. Therefore, since the synagogue is now in a United States territory, it holds the honor of being the oldest continually used synagogue under the U.S. flag.

But the sand?

If you are not right on a beach, can you imagine the central gathering room of a church or place of worship with - not a sprinkling - but a hefty, substantial, intentional layer of sand meant to be the floor covering? It is quite surprising, and, as an island synagogue, so fitting. The sandy floor is calm and quieting, in concert with Mother Nature, with the Gaiam of the Caribbean beaches. It feels absolutely welcoming to an island soul.

So responsive to the foot, the body, the being, this rolling sand on the floor greets the eyes like rolling waves of the sea. It is gentle, yet dynamic. It has a comfortable feeling. Nature. That of God’s world. And, it IS so quiet—which was probably the point. Anti-Semitism of the past may have led the congregants to muffle the sounds of their unique, non-Christian worship with a sand-covered floor. Another reason proferred is that the sand symbolizes the Egyptian desert crossed during the Exodus. Whatever the reasons, the sand is something to be experienced.

A good friend sent me an email with many photos.  Many are humorousand one photo is entitled “Blasphemy.  A ticket to Hell has never been funnier.”  What, you imagine, could possibly be contained in this photo?  We frequently think of blasphemy as profane words, not photographs.  On the other hand, there is the saying is that a picture is worth a thousand words, but…..alright, I’ll tell you. 

The setting is obviously an art museum.  There are 3 creative-minded men standing next to a painting.  As one looks at the photo, the painting takes up the left half and the three men occupy the right half.  If you have been to a wedding reception in the last 20 years, you most likely had a chance to see guests dancing to the Village People’s song “YMCA.”  When the chorus sings the letters “Y-M-C-A,” people move their arms to make the shapes of each letter.  It’s pretty standard in my neck of the woods.  So, in this blasphemous photo, the men are forming the letters M, C, and A, in the correct order.  What’s missing? The Y, of course!

The missing Y is supplied by the painting.  The painting is huge and of a sole figure whose arms are indeed stretched out and above the level of his head.  Although his arms aren’t as high as the typical dance-floor letter-makers, in the context of being with the three men, one easily knows he is the “Y.” Have you guessed who the he is?  It is Christ.  But it gets worse.  It is Christ hanging on the cross, his weakness and body weight obviously dragging his body down, while his hands are affixed and immovable.

It sounds potentially hideous, doesn’t it?  But, I laughed out loud when I saw it.  And I’ve laughed at it many times since.  This started me on my own reflection: would God get the joke?  Would h/He laugh?  I can imagine many reasons why he would not.  If I saw a photo of one of my sons being crucified and others were doing the YMCA, I would not be the least bit amused.  However, this Holy Trinity being is someone bigger, wiser, and gooder (yes – “gooder”) than I.  I also think that he might be slightly tickled.  Or pleased.  Pleased that his son lived with these weirdo humans and they are making a connection to him.  That they are not feeling that the God-son is unapproachable, untouchable, unhuman. 

The Christian Bible contains the words, “Jesus wept.”  I fully believe that at many times in his life, Jesus laughed.   Belly-laughed.  Belly-laughed until his stomach hurt and tears rolled down his cheeks.  So, can he be the “Y” in YMCA or is that blasphemy?